Prayers of the Darkest Night
by BleedingTwilight
Summary: A lone wolf howls in the British night as he watches the moon rise over the island. What invokes the unearthly cries that wretch themselves from his lungs? Tristan, oneshot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the movie King Arthur or Celtic mythology.**

AN: This is simply a short fic inspired by last night's full moon. Please read and review!

Prayers of the Darkest Night

If asked, the villagers of the fort would swear it was a wolf howling in the dead of night as the full moon rose over the wretched island. The knights and Romans, alike, would agree that it was an inhuman wail that called to the blackened sky. It was only the Woads deep within the forest that knew better than to believe it was an animal of four legs that cried its soul out to the ball of light within the darkness. It was only the Woads, the deepest sworn enemies of the inhabitants of the fort that knew who, not what, howled every full moon.

Even though they knew, it did not mean that they ventured close enough to truly see the weary man howl like a beast at the rising orb. No, the Woads had their legends and superstitions. They believed that the unearthly howls that broke free from the man within the wood were his demons come out to play. They had seen this man on the battle field with his cold eyes, deft maneuvers, and deadly dances. They had seen him revel in the spill of blood in a way that only a man possessed could. Not one Woad knew his true name, some even wondered if he had a given name since wild creatures didn't, but they called him the Wolf or even Cernunnos, the horned god of animals and the hunt.

The Woads feared the wild knight that sat still in the forest yet wailed as a banshee would into the still air. Though they feared him, they were not without respect for the silent knight that seemed to be able to charm animals and hunt like no other. Some went so far as to believe he was the god Cernunnos, though the elders strongly disapproved of such thought. There was no denying, however, the unnatural or preterhuman quality of the man in the forest. With dark braids that covered the depths of his souls that showed through his chocolate eyes, he looked more feral than civilized. With the long curved blade that he swung with deft grace, he was more god than human. As his silhouette shown dark and slumped over the boulder in the glow of the rising moon, he looked like the gate keeper to the otherworld, who could see from this world into the next simply by gazing into the ethereal light of the moon. The Woads, out of respect to their gods and nature itself, as well as their own lives, never ventured near the, otherwise, silent knight on evenings such as this.

Tristan sat upon a boulder in the middle of the forest. His black silhouette outlined by the rising moon. He once remembered a story his elder brother had told him back on the steppes of Sarmatia on a night such as this. He had told a much younger Tristan that when the full moon rose like fire over the flat plains, silhouetting all in black fire, one could see into the underworld. Back into the past, one could let his vision venture to those that had gone before, and whose duty it was, now, to watch over those who still lived and fought as true warriors.

Memories flooded back to the knight as he looked up to the moon and howled like the beast that raged within him, within all of them. Tristan remembered the first time he had howled at the moon.

_He had been only six summers old and following his brother on a hunt. He had been forcibly told to stay home, but in his naïve youth Tristan had followed like the loyal puppy that his wide eyes often made him out to be. It had not taken long for his brother to realize that he was being followed, and it had taken less time for him to lose the young Tristan. After all, at the age of six, Tristan had not been the superb tracker he was now. Tristan had gotten lost and wandered for hours in the twilight. It was only as the full hunter's moon was rising that Tristan realized his predicament. As the blood red orb rose, larger than one could truly believe, about the endless plain, Tristan realized how alone he was. _

_Tristan had been wandering blindly over the steppes when he tripped carelessly over a small rock. He fell sharply on his arm and pain shot through it with fury. Tristan stood once again, and cradled his arm carefully to his chest._

_It was the ethereal howl of a nearby pack of wolves danced across the plain. Tristan shivered at the thought of being found by them, alone, weaponless, and injured. He had heard the whispers of how young boys from other tribes had been found having become the meal of a hungry pack. Tristan's heart bled at the idea that he would never see his brother again, though he didn't realize that it was the brother he idolized that put him in this situation. Tristan soon found himself howling at the bloody sky as well in pain and sorrow. He didn't even realize that he was imitating the beasts until he was surrounded by a pack of wailing wolves. _

_Tristan stood absolutely still as he continued to howl as the beasts circled him. He could feel their heated and hungry eyes appraise him as they danced around him. Tristan just closed his eyes accepting his young fate and let out one final anguished howl. Surprisingly, his end never came as the beasts just continued to keen along side the injured youth. What should have been and easy meal for the weary pack had become an unexpected guest in a ritual far older than the steppes themselves._

_Tristan's brother had found him in a panic after hearing the nearby wolves, but upon seeing his younger brother surrounded by a pack of hungry beasts, he had gone mad. Tristan's brother had shot every last beast with a skillful stroke of his bow. Tristan had wailed all the louder as he tried to stop the assault of the roaming pack. Many died slowly as, in his fury and fear, Tristan's brother did not aim well. Tristan had wept like the child he was over the bodies of then slain beasts. He was still too young to understand the cycle of life, and it seemed so horrible that such creatures should be slain for simply living freely._

_Tristan's brother had scolded him and even delivered several well place slaps in turn for Tristan's disobedience. Tristan took his punishment in silent tears as he continued to mourn the poor beasts. He vowed from that moment never to kill an animal for pleasure or to ever let one suffer in its death, to never kill what simply wanted to be free. Tristan had lost a hero that night, not because a pack of wolves had been slain, but because Tristan realized that he and his brother were not made of the same fibers. Tristan was as the wolves were, free and wild. His brother was as the Romans, disciplined and caged by want of power._

Tristan still loved his brother after that day. He was actually the reason that Tristan still keened at the moon. Tristan's brother had died on the night of a full moon. He had died by the sword of the Roman that had come to take Tristan away to serve. He had bled red like the moon as it climbed in the sky. He had died because he too had realized the difference in himself and his younger brother. He, too, knew that Tristan needed to be free, allowed to be wild. And, he would not let Rome take Tristan to be caged by proud men so long as he lived.

It was for his brother, his wolves, his freedom, and his deadened heart that Tristan snuck out of the fort every time the moon was in full cycle. No one ever noticed as he slipped through the cracks in the wall to escape into the thick forest. No one ever wondered where he was during these nights. No one realized that the anguished cries to the rising moon were from him, the silent knight, as they believed that no human could produce such a sound.

That was why when he returned in the morning he would be summoned to Arthur's chambers where he would be told to scout for a pack of wolves near the wall. Arthur would tell him to kill any he might cross paths with for they might endanger the villagers. If only they knew that it was he that howled, they would think him even more a beast than they already did. They would probably curse him and call him possessed as he knew the Woads did.

He had heard the Woads' whispers in the wind as he sat still in the glorious light of the moon. He had heard the stories whispered during battle, and he took pride in the fact that they would call him Cernunnos. To be compared with their god of nature and the hunt was an honor even if he did not believe in it. Tristan could not deny the pleasure that rose in his veins when Woad after Woad would line up to simply face death by his sword because they believed it wielded by a god of the underworld. If only they knew that he took no pleasure in their deaths that a piece of him died along with every Woad he'd slain. With every order and stroke of his blade, Tristan cursed himself for denying freedom to another wild creature.

Tristan shifted slightly as his hawk lazily flew across the moon to perch on his outstretched arm. The bird stretched out his wings to their full extent so that they were silhouetted by the moon's soft glow. Tristan couldn't help but gaze past him into the world beyond, where his brother now watched over him if he had not already returned as a great horse out on the steppes of Sarmatia. However, Tristan believed that his brother would not be so willing to return if Tristan, himself, needed watching over. The hawk raised its wings once more at took to the sky again as it let out a wail of its own to mingle with that of its companion.

Tristan watched the bird circle overhead and could not help but think that maybe the gods had made an exception this once and maybe his brother had returned as a hawk instead of a horse. He had been known to refer to his hawk as brother when he spoke to it, not as a given name but as a term of endearment that only they understood. How he wished that his hawk was truly the spirit if his brother, as he gazed up with eyes of longing. How he missed the wisdom and love his brother had showed him. How he missed laying in the tall grass out on the steppes as his brother told him tales that he still carried with him. How he missed his home and his family, although he would never admit it to his brother knights. He was the only one that never spoke of home while the other knights shared stories of their past, of their families. He couldn't remember much of his homeland; he simply felt the great lose of freedom and kin.

Tristan let silent tears fall as he howled one last time at the moon that had made its way to its apex in the sky and withdraw behind a heavy cloud. Tristan quieted and silently rose from his perch. His horse came without beckoning as the howls ceased. Tristan mounted and rode back to the cage he had broken free of to mourn. Tristan left his guilt, sorrow, pain, and words in the forest and returned to the fort the silent ever vigilant scout that the Romans and Britons, alike, feared. He returned to his room as the first whispers of dawn crept into the sky dulling the moon's glowing majesty. He lay down on his cot and closed his eyes until he would inevitably be beckoned by his commander to hunt none other than himself, to kill the beast within himself in order to protect the fort.

What Arthur didn't realize was that the beast that howled in the light of the full moon had died long ago on the steppes of Sarmatia. The wild beast that was once free to roam had been caged and in doing so had lost its will to live. The fort had nothing to fear from the imagined creature that wandered the surrounding forest. The howls that they heard on these nights were simply the prayers of the dead as they gazed from the otherworld into ours in protective vigilance.

XxX

Cernunnos was a Celtic god often depicted as a horned creature. He is a god of nature and the hunt as well as being associated with the underworld.

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